"Don't psychoanalyze me."
"Why not? You've been doing it to me for three weeks."
We were too close now. I could feel the heat radiating off him, could see the pulse jumping in his throat. The argument had shifted into something else, something charged and dangerous.
"Step back," I said.
"Why?"
"Because I can't think when you're this close."
Something flickered in his eyes. "Good."
"That's not—this isn't—" I pressed my palms against the wall behind me, trying to ground myself. "We're in the middle of an argument."
"I know."
"People are dying."
"I know."
"This is completely inappropriate."
"I know that too."
He didn't move. Neither did I. We stood there, inches apart, the air between us thick with anger and something else I didn't want to name.
"You're infuriating," I said.
"So I've been told."
"I don't understand you. I don't understand any of this."
"That makes two of us."
"You should want me gone. I'm nothing but trouble for you. I've brought chaos into your life, I've put your men in danger, I've—"
"Stop."
"Why?"
"Because you're not going to talk me out of protecting you. Whatever's happening here, whatever this situation is—I'm not walking away from it." He braced one hand against the wall beside my head, not touching me, but close enough that I could feel the warmth of his skin. "I don't fully understand it either. But I know that much."
"That's not rational."
"Nothing about this is rational."
I should have pushed him away. Should have insisted on space, on boundaries, on all the professional distance I'd been clinging to. But my hands weren't listening to my brain. They were pressed flat against his chest, feeling the rapid beat of his heart beneath my palms.
"This is a mistake," I whispered.
"Probably."
"We barely know each other."
"I know."
"I was your therapist."
